It's The Wanting More - Tumblr Posts

Empyrean,

your hunger hurts you awake. The sin is not the wanting, it’s the wanting more.

— Traci Brimhall, from “Chthonic Lullaby,” Come the Slumberless To the Land of Nod

Written for Alexa Chung by Alex Turner.

— since our story is a crime itself | g.f.

I really want a shirt that says "THE ENORMITY OF MY DESIRE DISGUSTS ME" and I want to wear it to the grocery store.

i can have a little unrealistic romantic fantasy. as a treat

i have a disease called “i believe i will have the love i have been reading about all these years one day”

“Forgive me my grief that spans out acres. I have love the size of a church, & no one to give it to. Do I cut my hair? Do I harvest all of my beginnings? I touch my teeth with my tongue to remember the sharp can fade. Someone learns my name. I fall asleep.”

— Ana Carrizo, “Reflections”

from “a hunger like no other” || sk osborn

“i am afraid that if i open myself i will not stop pouring. (why do i fear becoming a river. what mountain gave me such shame.)”

— Jamie Oliveira, “Erosion” (via postmoderniste)

“Love isn’t soft, like those poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.”

Stephen King

God comes through my open window every night, presses His body against mine, and tells me that love will destroy me if i let it; and i must let it. i go back to sleep

Photography by Ore Adesina / While the Child Sleeps Sonya Undresses by Ilya Kaminsky

I am too fearsome to be loved, too monstrous to be desired. I am too indifferent to be empathetic, too self-possessed to be vulnerable. I am too skilled at this thing of being alone, of not wanting, not yielding (too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful; too full of life to be half-loved...). I would demand from them a great and terrible love equal to mine, which, being balanced people, they could never hope to supply (for what sane person would allow themselves to be consumed like this?).

Do not mistake my meaning, it is not that I am unworthy of them - it is that they are unworthy of me.

Yves Olade, When Rome Falls

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Mary Bowles (about December 1858)

Maggie Nelson, from Something Bright, Then Holes